


Sickle and Forge

by alernun



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, M/M, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 20:48:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alernun/pseuds/alernun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for the prompt " Instant connection in a smile. " Also known as "No more reading depressing Russians, Charles."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sickle and Forge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [afrocurl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afrocurl/gifts).



Magneto looks down. 

He sees scuffed leather loafers (stolen off a smuggler in Argentina),and neatly pressed suit pants. Unlined hands without a blemish; good, strong, calloused hands. And of course, the threadbare trench coat. 

Magneto looks down at his feet on the train platform in the middle of a soft snow fall, and sees Erik. 

Erik's hair is dripping. His head is naked. His thoughts are free. 

There are people-some whole, some mere sketches, milling around on the platform, speaking in a language he recognizes as Russian but doesn't care enough to translate. Its the early end of night by the shade of blue warring with the gas lamps, a night interrupted by a few ambitious stars. 

Erik, drawn by some unerring internal compass, looks across the platform and sees Charles. 

His breath catches. For this is not the Charles he loves in spite of himself. There is no chair-no wide divide made wider by it's wheels and a calm determination. 

This is the man he fell in love with. This is the mutant who drew him in, his very self a chasm impossible to scale, (even if you happened to know how to fly). 

This is the forge that melted iron. 

“Charles!”

Erik calls out, but it's unnecessary. Charles has already closed Tolstoy's tale of woe, and slipped it in his pea coat pocket. He brushes damp brown curls from his forehead, stoic to the cold-or maybe immune. Blue eyes, full even then of fire, meet his. 

Erik feels the psychic slip inside him then, following the railing paths of his unprotected mind to his pounding heart, to the electric nodes of his obscurest extremities. It doesn't feel like it does across the rift-he has not been invaded, but filled. 

Charles's smile crackles in the secret place at the center of his chest , and Erik falls to his knees. 

/Where are we?/

/Oh, I have a vague idea. I must remember to do lighter reading before bed./ 

/What? Never mind. I don't care./

/The train's coming.../ Charles sounds uncertain. He speaks the next aloud, yelling in the deep tenored tones of youth above the screeching power of the locomotive. “It's probably better if I got on.”

Erik spares a sideways glance at the enormous machine, then lets the eyes take him again. “Don't you dare.” he growls through gritted teeth, and thrusts his right arm outward. 

The train shrieks to a halt in a matter of seconds, and steam fogs his line of sight. People are yelling fear and questions, infesting his concentration (infesting everything, always). 

He lets the vapor warm him as he rides the metal of the tracks across the ditch, and then he lets Charles's cold hands quest for heat against his face. 

“Kiss me,” begs the telepath, quiet against his ear.

Erik grins wide against Charles's lips before he lets them claim his mouth in the greedy necking that was (and is still) their style. 

With surely no effort on his partner's part, the humans have stopped mid-moment around them, and all is quiet. All is molten, slow churned peace, and they believe, as they always do when molded to the other, that they are the new Gods of a timeless order. 

 

 

Magneto wakes up spent in a cold bed, and re-acclimates himself to incompletion.


End file.
